


Been A While, Huh?

by sincerelymendacious



Category: Psychonauts (Video Games)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, M/M, Marijuana Use, References to past trauma, Reunion, Start of Relationship, emphatic character, kinda shippy, references to alchohol, references to past homelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21596743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincerelymendacious/pseuds/sincerelymendacious
Summary: Quentin runs into an old friend at a party.
Relationships: Clem Foote/Quentin Hedgemouse
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Been A While, Huh?

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest and say that this story won't make any sense unless you've heard me ramble about this idea regarding Quentin on the Psychowhatsits discord server. Quick rundown: I headcanon Quentin as having emphatic abilities that are not yet fully developed. When he's 11 he goes into Milla's nightmare room (maybe dared to by Kitty or something) and the sheer...awfulness of what she went through gives him a psychic injury, making him incredibly sensitive to the emotions of others, to the point where it affects many aspects of his life negatively. 
> 
> During the event, while he's running around the camp in shock, he run into Crystal and Clem, the latter of whom just radiates energy as bitter as a lemon. This hurts Quentin even more, and he ends up in a hospital for psychics or something idk yet. 
> 
> Shit happens, and eventually he hears that everyone blamed Clem for his accident. This does not sit right with Quentin (who doesn't blame anyone), so he somehow writes Clem a letter. That kickstarts their friendship (Phoebe and Crystal also get involved but this ain't about them) but then they get separated and blah blah blah, this is their epic reunion of sorts. 
> 
> Tbh i wrote this a self-indulgent stress relief cuz I like this pairing and its been a while since I've written it. if you wanna learn more, leave a comment or join the Psychowhatsits discord, where you can hear me holler about nonsense like this.

When Quentin Hedgemouse encountered Clem Foote again after a long period of separation, it was not on The Darwin Awards website, or on America's Most Wanted, as the latter had always joked. It was in a house that belonged to a mutual acquaintance, who was throwing a party 'just for the fuck of it,' as he very bizarrely put it.

Quentin stumbled upon him- quite literally, he'd tripped and nearly smashed his face into the door frame- standing front and center in the den, before an audience of his inebriated peers; four on the dark-brown faux leather couch, two on the matching arm-chair, and the remaining three seated on the floor. They were all staring up at him raptly, like they were students listening to a lecture being given by the raddest professor ever.

He was telling them a story. Quentin lingered in the doorway, resting his head against the frame, wanting to go say 'hey' but not wanting to interrupt. He was a little drunk, a little stoned, and more than a little overwhelmed by the swirl of other people's emotions having their own little party inside of his head. In truth, he'd been on his way out- things were getting to be a bit Much, and he had a blunt full of Mendo-Breath tucked away in his jacket pocket ready to help restore his chill. But then he'd caught sight of Clem, and had been unable to stop himself from, well, stopping.

"So after all that," Clem was saying, casually resting his elbow on the top shelf of the bookshelf he was standing next to- easy for him to do since the dude was freakin' huge- "we end up just sitting on this random stoop, 'cuz I guess that's what you do after half the Gary Police Department chases you across the city for no apparent reason." A chorus of laughs followed this, and Quentin laughed too, the sound forced out by the amusement of everybody else. "The three of us are just sitting there, catching our breaths," Clem resumed once the giggles subsided, "when we hear someone approach from down the street." He gestured to the left side of the den and everyone turned their heads to look, as though the person Clem was speaking of was right there, waiting for his cue. "We can't see shit until he walks under the streetlight, but we can hear that he's dragging something."

"Oh shit," said a guy on the couch.

"Was it like…" a girl on the floor began, her nervousness sliding into Quentin's head like an annoyingly catchy beat, "a body, or something?"

"That's what we all wondered," Clem said after taking a sip of his beer. "When he came into the light, we could see that he had this big trash bag, full to bursting with, I dunno, something. Couldn't see his face, since he was wearing this big puffy jacket with the hood up. He was just shuffling his way to us, lugging the bag behind him like a caveman with his club."

"Did you guys run?" asked the girl on the floor.

"I would have run the hell out of there," piped up someone from the chair- oh shit, Chops Sweetwind was at this party too, his afro still as voluminous as it had been when they were kids. His arm was slung around some guy Quentin didn't recognize. "Just booked it to some other stoop before I ended up in the bag."

A feeling of anticipation had wormed its way into the emotional atmosphere. Everyone appeared to be on the edge of their seats- even those on the floor- waiting to hear the end of the story, and thus Quentin was too. He took a step into the room, just crossing the threshold, a small bit of nervousness bubbling up within him that may or may not have been his own (it was hard to tell sometimes, especially when it was there were a lot of people around). There was probably nothing to worry about; Clem was giving off some pretty chill vibes, so the ending of this story must not have been too much of a downer.

"We didn't run because all of us were so tired," Clem explained. "We were just like 'man, we may as well meet a serial killer tonight.'" He shrugged, rolling his eyes. "So we sit there and wait for this guy to come to us. And he's chugging along, breathing all heavy, like he'd been carrying that bag for ages. I tell you, it must have been one sturdy garbage bag if it could take being dragged all over those messed up sidewalks."

"Eventually, the guy gets to us. He stops right in front of the stoop- just comes to a dead stop- and then he turns to look at us." Clem glanced up at the ceiling, looking like he were trying to recall details made fuzzy by the passage of time. "He didn't look especially weird- like any guy you'd come across on the street, really. But his voice, he sounded like he'd just teleported in from the wilds of New Jersey." He turned to look at Chops. "You know how Maloof sounds when he's trying to play up the whole mob boss schtick?"

Chops nodded, grinning. "Like Tony Soprano's whiny teenage cousin."

"Yeah, it was kind of like that. He picks up the garbage bag -" he lifted the arm holding the beer can up- "and said, Ten bucks boys, and the bag's all yours!"

The combination of Clem's imitation and the absurdity of the story caused an eruption of laughter to burst forth from the audience. Quentin was quickly caught up in it, the force of the collective mirth doubling him over like a punch to the stomach. He bent forward, trying to keep his giggles under control- on more than one occasion he'd lost it far more than the situation had warranted, which had always led to awkwardness afterward.

"So did you find out what was in the bag?" someone asked.

"Nope!" Clem answered, shaking his head ruefully. "We didn't have ten bucks between the three of us. One of the other guys told him that we were broke and the man just smiled and said 'too bad.' And then he just shuffled off, presumably to find someone in better financial straits."

"Damn," Chops ran a hand through his hair and let out a disbelieving laugh. "That's some weird shit, man." Quentin could not help but agree with that assessment.

"You don't think he really had a body in there, do you?" the girl on the floor asked, more unnerved than the others by Clem's story.

"Nah, the bag was full, but it wasn't lumpy like it would have been if there had been a bunch of severed limbs in it," Clem replied, shooting the girl a reassuring look. "It was probably full of grass clippings or something.

"Oh." The girl's shoulders sagged visibly with relief. The smile that spread across her face was one that Quentin could have easily fallen in love with had it been directed at him.

"I bet the bag had weed in it," offered one very red-eyed fellow. "A big ol' bag of the finest kush ever grown, and you guys just let it go."

"R.I.P. to Clem and pals," somebody piped up among the giggling.

"It wasn't weed, you piece of shit stoners," Chops' date said, exasperated. "What kind of idiot would give up that much for ten dollars?"

"Oh, I don't know," Clem said. "He could have been a cop trying to entrap some street rats. Would have been my luck."

"Maybe he wasn't a cop, but the Devil himself," someone put forward philosophically. "And he had, like, the Holy Grail buried in the big bag of weed."

"Man, you're more fried than a funnel cake," Chops' date said acerbically. "Why would the Devil have the Holy Grail?"

"Well, it's not like anyone's found it yet. Maybe that's cuz the devil does have it and we just don't know it."

From there, the conversation split off in two- one regarding the location of the Holy Grail, the other guesses as to the contents of what could have been in the mysterious bag. Part of Quentin wanted to go in and mingle with the group, but he was still feeling kind of antsy, and he knew it would probably would have been better to chill himself out a little before attempting more social interaction. _I'll come back later and hang out if everyone's still here._

As he was ducking back into the hallway, he thought that Clem's gaze had been on him, just for a second. But then the girl from the floor approached him and stared up a conversation, drawing his attention away. She was really cute, and really seemed to like Clem a lot, so Quentin silently wished him luck and headed out of the house.

* * *

The girl apparently was unable to hold Clem's attention for long, for he was out on the back porch by the time Quentin was half-way through his joint. "Hey," he said as he emerged, lingering in the doorway much in the same manner that Quentin had earlier.

"Oh!" Instinctively, Quentin scrambled to turn in his chair so that his joint was out of view; a pointless action considering that the smoke drifting up from the lit end would give its presence away no matter where he hid it. "Hey man, uh, hey," he rambled, his tongue so loose that his words were practically falling out of his mouth. "What's up?"

Clem glanced up, inclining his head toward the porch light affixed to the wall. "I'd say three moths trying to smash their way into a fiery death. Oh wait, there's four moths. My bad."

It wasn't that funny of a joke but Quentin laughed anyway, amused by Clem's delivery. "Yeah," he said, his laughter having a somewhat wheezy quality to it. He glanced down at his joint and then offered it to Clem. "Want some?"

Clem shook his head, so Quentin brought it to his lips and inhaled halfheartedly, suddenly not as interested in finishing it as he had been before. "Been a while, huh?" Clem remarked as he blew out a stream of smoke.

Quentin coughed instead of responding like a normal human being. "Oh, yeah, bro" he rasped out, feeling more than a little stupid as he pounded on his chest with his fist. "Dang, I think it's been what, five years? Six?" He tried to remember the last time he'd gotten a letter from Clem, but his brain felt as fogged up with smoke as the air around him. "Long time," he concluded, wincing at the poor quality of his conversational skills.

"It's been seven years," Clem said, and he sounded so sure that Quentin immediately accepted it as fact. "But who's counting, right?"

"Oh jeez," Quentin said, rubbing at his scalp with his free hand. "Um, sorry about that, man. I kind of dropped off the face of the Earth for everyone but Phoebe back then."

"It's fine," Clem said as he crossed the porch over to where Quentin sat. "It's not like I would have gotten any letter you sent anyway. I was between street addresses for a good chunk of time."

The statement did not elicit any sort of negative emotion from Clem- no anger, bitterness, or sadness- which, for Quentin was a relief, even if he did feel bad that Clem had apparently been homeless at one point. He meant to express this sympathy, but as he looked up at Clem, something in the communication between his mouth and his mind went haywire. "Damn, you're tall," he said, instead of something marginally more appropriate.

Thankfully, Clem didn't appear to have taken offense. "Yeah, I know," he said, chuckling as walked over to the chair next to Quentin's and sat down in it.

Quentin felt the need to explain himself anyway. "Bro, that's totally not what I meant to say. I'm just, ugh." He lifted his joint up, as though that accounted for all of his foolish behavior. "I should just toss this."

The chair creaked as Clem settled himself into it. "Don't stop on my account," he said.

"No, no, I really gotta cut back," Quentin said, snuffing the joint out on the arm rest and stuffing the remains in his jacket pocket ( littering in someone's yard was not cool, after all). "I keep saying I'm gonna cut back, but then I don't." He slouched back into his chair and sighed.

Clem made a wordless noise of acknowledgement, looking out at the small backyard like he was searching for what to say next. "We've all got our vices," he said after a moment, "it's not the worst thing you could be doing to yourself."

Quentin didn't know how to respond to this, so he wisely decided not to say anything at all. From there, a silence fell upon them both, a silence that was strangely comfortable despite the years that had separated them. It had been a good decade since they'd actually been in the same space together, since their primary method of communication had been through letters. Back at camp, there'd always been this cloud of negativity hanging over Clem's head, despite his attempt at maintaining a sunny persona, and Quentin had been able to pick up on his unhappiness even before the accident that had caused his hyper-empathy to manifest. Now, however, Clem seemed genuinely chill, indicating that he'd either gotten better at hiding his pain, or that he'd just gotten better. Quentin hoped it was the latter.

He was blinking sleepily in his chair, on the verge of nodding off, when he noticed a lone dog house in the upper left corner of the yard, placed against the wooden fence. "Oh dang," he said, pointing out at the house, "I totally forgot Jared had a dog."

Clem shook his head. "Not anymore. When he broke up with his girlfriend, the dog went with her. Liked her better, I guess. He told me that he was throwing this party as an excuse to drink himself into liver failure."

"Yikes." The empty dog house suddenly appeared more depressing with this new information in mind. "Shit, that's why the mood in the party is so low," he said before he could stop himself.

Clem turned to look at him, eyebrows slightly raised. "So you can pick up on that?" he asked.

Quentin nodded. "I knew that something was off, yeah."

Clem paused, like he was considering whether or not he should continue this line of conversation. "So you're still…" He tapped the side of his head with his pointer finger. For a second, Quentin thought he meant 'crazy' (which would not have been a completely inaccurate assessment). "Still sensitive?"

"Uh, a little," Quentin said. That was such an understatement that it bordered on a straight-up lie. His hyper-empathy had been the result of a psychic wound he had suffered many years ago while messing around where he should not have in Agent Vodello's mind, and it had basically ruled his life ever since.

Clem gave him a sympathetic look. "That sucks, man. I'm sorry."

Quentin waved the apology off, his movements made sluggish by the various substances he'd sampled over the course of the night. "No worries," he said, not wanting to ruin their reunion by unloading a ton of bullshit onto Clem's shoulders. "Problems, yo. We all got 'em." He made a sweeping gesture at Clem. "But you, man, you look good!"

Clem laughed dismissively. "You must not be able to see well, since the lighting out here's so dim. I'm Lurch's buck-toothed cousin."

Apparently the years hadn't made Clem more receptive to compliments. "Nah, dude," Quentin said, leaning towards him. "You do look good. I mean that in more than just the physical sense. Not to sound like a weirdo but you feel like you're doing great, you know?"

Clem looked away, smoothing down his shirt absently. "I guess I am in a better place than I used to be." The left corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Though, really, that's like saying that being in a trash can is better than being in a landfill, ha-ha."

"Hey, some trash cans are really nice," Quentin pointed out, "Phoebe's got one that can connect to her wi-fi."

Clem eyed him skeptically for a long moment before realizing that Quentin was not going to say 'sike'. "Ha-ha, what? Why does it do that?"

Quentin shrugged. "Dunno. But every time I throw something away it says 'thank you!' and I go 'you're welcome garbage pal!'"

"I can totally see you doing that." Clem's amusement flowed easily into Quentin's mind, making him feel higher than the joint he had just discarded. "A trash can that talks to you and has internet access. Wow," Clem said, shaking his head. "It sounds like a smart house for Oscar the Grouch."

Quentin grinned. "So yeah. Don't knock the trash can, man. Especially if you came from the dump."

Clem chuckled. "That's a great motivational quote, actually. I'm going to steal it and put it on a poster. Good ol' Oscar can be on it."

"Shit, bro, you could make a bunch and then sell it," Quentin suggested. "Make the big bucks."

"And then I'll finally be able to afford my own Smart Trash Can," Clem said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "But hm, we'd have to alter Oscar a bit if we want to avoid copyright infringement. We could color him orange and call him "Bosco the Grunch."

The parody name struck Quentin as hilarious. "Man, what the hell is a 'Grunch?'" he asked.

"It's like a Grouch, but orange and crunchy. They're cousins."

"Pfft, that sounds like an angry dorito," Quentin said, laughing. Absurd as the conversation was, something about it tugged at his chest, something that was kind of nostalgic. Silly stuff like this had been ever-present in the letters that Clem used to send him. "Do you remember this one letter you wrote," he said once he had settled himself down, "that you signed as 'Clam Feete?'"

Clem shook his head. "I don't remember that, but I can easily see myself spelling my own name wrong."

"No, you didn't misspell it. I mean, you did, technically, but it wasn't for no reason," Quentin said, his face scrunching up as he tried to bring more details of the letter to his mind. "There was like, context to it in the letter, but I don't remember what it was. But man, the first time I read that, I freakin' lost it. I thought it was so funny." A smile came to Quentin's face at the recollection of that looping signature.

"That's understandable. Switching out the vowels is pretty much the funniest thing you could do to a word." Clem's tone was casual, but Quentin could sense something within him softening; it was in his eyes as well. "Plus, 'e' is just a funnier letter than 'o'. Who knows where life would have taken me if I had been born into the Feete family."

"It was more than that," Quentin said, looking down at lap. "I was going through some pretty heavy stuff at the time. My Grandma was back in the hospital again and it wasn't looking good for her. Everyone was feeling like crap but nobody wanted to say that they felt like crap because they were all trying to look on the bright side. But I knew that everyone felt like crap even without them saying anything about it. So that made me feel even crappier but I couldn't say anything because nobody else was talking about it and I didn't want to make anyone feel worse than they already did." He paused to take a breath. "When I got your letter my Grandma had come down with...what's it called, the thing where your immune system messes up your body instead of healing it? Sepsis?" He looked to Clem for confirmation, who nodded. " Yeah she had that, and we weren't allowed to visit her because it's contagious and she looked really bad. Anyway, I read your letter in the waiting room, and it made me laugh so hard chocolate milk shot out of my nose. Which was like a miracle on its own, because hospitals? Man, they're worse than funerals in terms of vibes. It's constant stress and pain, wondering whether you or your loved one is gonna make it out of there okay. At least at a funeral you're sad but you get some closure. I'd rather go to a million of those than set foot inside a hospital for one minute."

It became necessary to breath again, so Quentin stopped talking for a moment to inhale, glancing at Clem as he did. Clem was staring at him like he didn't know how to respond to the long, rambling story Quentin had just told, discomfort and sympathy twisting around him. "But yeah," Quentin muttered, his face heating up. "Your letter, it was really good." He clamped his mouth shut before he could spill anymore of his emotional guts out onto this person he had not communicated with in years.

"I...wow." Clem opened his mouth, then closed it, like he was wrestling with what to say next. He eventually settled with, "I'm sorry you went through that."

"Hey bro, it's fine," Quentin said quickly, waving his hand as though to bat the apology away. "Happened a long time ago. I'm pretty much over it." Except for the occasional nightmare he had where he was trapped in an eye-searingly bright waiting room, watching helplessly as masked doctors gave the strangers seated with him horrible news.

Clem nodded, a question still in his eyes. Quentin didn't need to be psychic to know what that question was. "Did your grandma-" he cut himself off and looked away for a second before returning his gaze. "Was she alright?"

"She recovered enough to make it back home," Quentin answered, his throat suddenly tight. "But uh…" He couldn't bring himself to say that she had passed away only a month later. The memory of her death still hurt, though time had dulled it to an ache in his chest.

Thankfully Clem figured it out without him having to say it. "Ah, sorry," he said, running a hand through his short brown hair. "Really, that's...I'm sorry. I don't really know what else to say." He sighed. "I shouldn't have asked."

"Nah, you're good," Quentin insisted, reaching over to lay a hand on Clem's forearm. He felt Clem tense up- both physically and emotionally- and immediately removed it, putting it back in his lap. "I'm the one who brought it up when I got all T.M.I." He sank into his seat, upset with himself for messing up what could have been an epic reunion. Weed, even in small amounts, always seemed to unhinge his jaw and remove the filter his brain usually put on his words. "Sorry man, totally didn't mean to drive the convo into Downersville."

"How about we make a U-turn and change the subject?" Clem suggested.

That sounded like a fantastic idea to Quentin, who was really glad that Clem had not just gotten up and left, even though he would have been totally justified in doing so. "I heard that story you told earlier," he said, "it was rad."

"Ha, thanks. It's one of the more amusing episodes of my very lame childhood," Clem said, smiling, looking and feeling a little more relaxed. "Always gets people talking."

"Well, you know I gotta ask," Quentin said, setting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward so that he is head was in his hands, "what do you think was in the bag?"

"His garbage," Clem answered with surety.

The mundane response was not one Quentin expected, though really, he supposed he should have. "Woah, did you read his mind or something?"

"No, but what else could it have been?" Clem asked Quentin, who responded with a half-shrug. "My theory is that he was dragging it to a dumpster when he saw three out-of-breath punks, and decided to see if he could make a quick ten bucks." He barked out a laugh. "Really, not a bad idea if you think about it. Pretty much no risk."

That actually made a lot of sense- more than the bag having a ton of weed in it or the guy being a corrupt cop. "Dang man, you're smart," he said, impressed. "I probably would have bought it if it had been me in your place."

Clem looked at him like he had grown a second head. "Really?" he said skeptically. "I have a hard time believing that. You aren't stupid."

"It's not about being smart or stupid," Quenitn explained, sitting back up. "It's about peace of mind. If I hadn't bought it, I would have spent my whole life wondering what was in it. Ten bucks is worth not having that regret hanging over my head."

"Huh," Clem said, the syllable long and contemplative. "You know, I've got some garbage bags at home. All of the delights within them can be yours for the low, low price of 10 bucks per bag."

Quentin snorted. "No, dude, I can't just buy any old bag. I have to encounter something like that in the wild." He raised his hand and swept it in an arc. "It's about the experience."

Clem was not willing to give up so easily. "How about a two-for-one special?" he offered, eyes glinting with humor. "C'mon, man, I need the sale. Beanpoles such as my self have to buy clothes tailored for giants, and those are expensive!"

An 8-bit version of Hanson's _MMM-Bop_ interrupted Quentin before he could haggle any further. "Oh, shit," Clem muttered as he dug into his jeans pocket. He pulled out his phone, a flare of annoyance spiking up within him as he read the screen. "Time for me to go," he sighed as he tapped out a message to the person on the other end and replaced the phone. "This was fun while it lasted-" He broke off, his eyes widening as he looked at Quentin. "What's wrong?"

"Huh? Nothing," Quentin replied, confused.

"You look kind of mad."

He did? Quentin realized that he was frowning in reaction to Clem's irritation, and immediately flattened his lips into a neutral line. "Oh, I'm good, it's cool."

"Hm. Well, I have to go know, I guess," Clem said, the bitterness in his tone so subtle that Quentin would not have picked up on it had he been slightly less sensitive. He rose from his seat, stretching his long arms upward and cracking his knuckles, not looking to be in any hurry to depart.

"Oh," Quentin said, disappointment sinking his mood like stone. "Goodbye." He wondered if he should walk Clem to the door but then ultimately decided that would be a bit strange. "Good talking to you, bro. Glad to see you're doing okay."

"Yeah, same." Clem lingered there for a moment, anxiety interlacing with his annoyance, the source of it unknown to Quentin. "Alright," he eventually said before making his way over to the door.

"Wait!" An impulse forced Quentin up from his chair, and he rushed over to Clem before he could disappear into the house. "We should, uh…" He closed his mouth, his cheeks turning red as his mind drew a blank regarding what he and Clem should do. "We should hang out sometime. Catch up a little more when I'm not half outta my head."

There was a brief hesitation on Clem's part, during which Quentin's heart shot up into his throat. Then he pulled out his phone. "Sure, that sounds like a good idea. Give me your number." Quentin did, his tongue tripping over the digits in his excitement. "It might be awhile before I can contact you," he said as he put Quentin's number into his contacts. "There's...something I need to take care of, first. But yeah, I'd really like to set something up."

"Cool, cool." The prospect of rekindling an old friendship overtook any curiosity he might have had regarding Clem's statement may have meant. "Call me anytime, bro, I'm always around, just chilling."

Clem laughed. "I see that hasn't changed." He gave Quentin one last, meaningful look. "Hang in there, alright?"

"Uh, sure. You too." Clem turned to go, waving as he headed down the hallway towards the exit. "See you soon, man," he said as he waved back, hoping that it would happen before another decade passed.


End file.
